The quietest hour
Has come
And gone
Along with the
Still Darkness
All night long
A bird call now and then
Heralds the waking day
As the sky
Is licked orange
By the rising sun
The coldness
Of darkness
Turns into
Morning cold air
That still wants
To wrap you
To maintain the
Misere
Which makes
It easier
To accept the
Warm comfort
Of the night nest
Rather than
Take that first step
To acknowledge
The new day
With my mouth
Gone quiet
So to the light
With a click
I lay my head down
Waiting for the quietest hour
I close my eyes
And see again
The day’s events
From woe to go
And back again
I question my responses
Acknowledge new guilt’s
And pay homage to old
Finally
My mind is done with this day
As I wait for the quietest hour
It now has
The space it needs
To flourish and meander
Toward that
Stillest hour
he rolde silently for miles
the trees around him whispered secrets of the land
and he simply listened with the quietist of breaths
the horse's hooves' stomps sounded as the pistols claimed death
Screams of agony surrounded him, yet the only thing he heard was the secrets of the land
spoken by the wisest of the trees
Within an instant, fiery red engulfed his sight
and everything became painfully real again
-startled, the horse underneath him bucked violently
until he threw the man to the dirt path
suddenly alone, the gasping breaths of his former village overwhelmed him
another explosion, more distant this time
he could smell the burning bodies of his loved ones
as bile rose up in his charred throat
and he stumbled around like a drunk, searching for his Elizabeth
She was nowhere to be found
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